


A Flame In Your Heart

by coloursflyaway



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Getting Together, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Canon, Recovered Memories
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-25
Updated: 2015-11-25
Packaged: 2018-05-03 09:13:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5285135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coloursflyaway/pseuds/coloursflyaway
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve finds Bucky stuck in a vice, but bringing him back takes so much more.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Flame In Your Heart

**Author's Note:**

> Stucky trash forever, it seems.

 

 

“Your mother’s name was Sarah”, Bucky says, breathes out, and everything changes.

 

He frees Bucky from the vice he is stuck in, and although he knows he shouldn’t, he can’t stop touching the other, his hands flitting between Bucky’s arm, his back, once his chest, just to make sure he is real, he is there, he is alive.  
Bucky still looks like himself and yet completely different, like an old photograph that has been exposed to light for too long, the edges and lines long faded, but the essence still there, still familiar.

Sam must notice too, even if he doesn’t say a word, just watches Steve watch Bucky.

 

They take Bucky, who is still shaking, still weak, to a flat Steve rented when they were still searching for Bucky and tell him it is somewhere safe, nowhere S.H.I.E.L.D can find them Sam excuses himself with a few, soft-uttered words; Steve knows he must be curious, must want to stay, even if only to find out what happened to the man they chased through half the world. But the other gives them the privacy that Steve knows he needs and hopes that Bucky needs as well, and Steve can’t help but be grateful, eternally.  
Once the door has closed, he turns around, catches Bucky watching him, his brow furrowed as if he couldn’t quit figure something out. It’s the same look he used to wear when they were still boys and listened to Bucky’s grandma’s radio, both captivated by the whole new world spread out in front of them now. He had always been too curious for his own good, wanted to take the radio apart to find out what made it work, to see the magic clearly hidden behind it.

Now he watches Steve with the same concentration, the same unwavering attention, and what should be unnerving makes his skin tingle, his mouth go dry.  
“What do you remember, Buck?”, he asks before he can stop himself; he needs to know.  
The expression doesn’t change for a few moments, then Bucky answers, “Not everything.”  
Then adds, “Too much.”

 

They spend the night on the floor, Bucky because he is not used to the softness of the bed, can’t stop tossing and turning, and Steve because he can’t be anywhere but next to the other right now. Bucky might not remember everything, but Steve does.

“What do you expect from me?”, Bucky asks into the darkness around them, not startling Steve, who knows he won’t get any sleep tonight, is watching every breath Bucky takes.  
“Nothing”, he answers too quickly, and the other lets out a sound that’s not quite a laugh but still almost too close to it.  
“That’s a lie.”  
It’s not a question, and that is the most comforting thing about the whole day, that Bucky can still read him like he used to.

“It is”, Steve admits, turns on his back and forces his eyes to stay on the ceiling instead of the other’s face. “I don’t know. Nothing is too little and everything is too much. Something in between.”  
Bucky hums, rustles with his sheets, most likely pushing them back; Steve doesn’t dare to look, just in case he won’t be able to look away again.  
“I don’t think I could do either”, Bucky answers, their fingers brush and suddenly Steve’s skin is on fire, crackling with electricity, frozen like it was once before.

“Come back to me, then”, he says and hopes he isn’t pleading. “Can you do that?”  
“I’ll try.”

 

They wake up and the next day is bright and cheerful around them; Steve doesn’t know if he shares the sentiment. Bucky next to him is sitting up slowly, still cautious, like he is expecting to be attacked any moment now, and it hurts a little, but Steve pushes the pain away. Instead he focusses on the way the sunlight bounces off the other’s skin, catches on his eyelashes.  
“Good morning, Buck”, he mutters out and it feels like 1942 did, new and fresh and exciting. His heart gives another painful tug.

It takes a moment until Bucky answers, as if he wasn’t used to it – and he most likely isn’t, Steve realises a second too late – but when he does, he drawls out the word like he always did. “Morrnin’”  
His body wants to drag Bucky down for a kiss, ignoring how the night has turned both their breaths sour, but Steve stops himself with a deep breath, a second he looks away.  
“Want to get some breakfast, maybe?”, he asks, and it sounds impossibly mundane the second the words have tumbled out of his mouth, but Steve can’t regret them, not when Bucky looks at him with that same expression as the night before, then nods.

 

They get bagels and black coffee and Bucky eats like he is expecting the food to be taken away as soon as he looks away; Steve forgets about his coffee until it’s cold, undrinkable, because he is too busy watching him.

 

Steve takes him to Central Park, ignores the gazes following them just like Bucky seems to do, his hands stuffed deep into the pockets of the hoodie he must have stolen somewhere.  
“Do you remember this?”, he asks and it seems as if Bucky hasn’t been paying attention to their surroundings at all, because he looks around now, expression guarded, but eyes curious.  
“No”, he answers slowly. “Tell me.”

It’s not what he was hoping for, but it’s good enough, and Steve resist the sudden urge to take the other’s hand (because he could now, in public, he could kiss and hug Bucky, could hold his hand, and that is something that is still almost too much to consider).  
“It used to look different back then, of course”, he starts, keeps his voice soft, because this is something that they are supposed to share, not the rest of the world. “Real different, even. But sometimes, when we were still boys, my mum used to take us here and we’d pretend to feed the ducks, since we couldn’t spare any bread for them.”

“Sarah”, Bucky mutters, as if he was trying to ground the borrowed memory somehow, “She used to tie up her hair, but let it down as soon as she came back home.”  
“She did”, Steve agrees quietly, because he hasn’t thought about his mother in such a long time and because as much as he likes these memories, he’d rather know what Bucky remembers about him.

 

They come back late in the evening when the city around them is still buzzing, but the sky is growing darker with every passing minute, and it might be nothing more than his overactive mind, but Steve thinks he can feel Bucky’s hand brushing against his own when they walk up the stairs.

 

Steve never thought he could sleep as well on the floor as he does when Bucky is next to him, breathing slowly, deeply, as long as the nightmares let him sleep.  
There are more of them than Steve would ever have guessed; some of them are loud, wake Bucky up with a violent scream and thrashing limbs, some of them are so quiet Steve hardly notices them appearing and passing. Those are the ones he fears more, because Bucky goes almost dangerously still, hissing out breaths and half-formed whimpers.

If he could, he would ask Bucky about them the next morning, but he doesn’t, although he doesn’t know if because he doesn’t think Bucky would answer it, or because he doesn’t want to hear the answer.

 

Same comes back the next afternoon, pulls Steve aside before he can protest.  
“Do you know if he is dangerous?”, he asks, and Steve would be offended, if he didn’t know that Sam was only trying to keep him safe. Keep them safe.  
“He isn’t”, he answers instead, immediately, not allowing himself a moment that could be considered hesitation.

“Do you say that because you know it, or because you’re in love with him?”, Sam asks, and Steve, who should have known that Sam would pick up on it, freezes. By now, it’s second nature, even after having slept for seventy years, because when all of this started, a wrong word could have meant at least imprisonment.  
“Is it that obvious?”, he asks instead of answering, hands curling into fists at his sides on their own account.  
“Yes.” Sam sighs, rubs his hand across his face, and it’s only now that Steve notices the bags under his eyes, telling him that the other hasn’t slept in far too long. “But you didn’t answer my question. The last time you met, he tried to kill you. Will he try again?”  
“No. You’re wrong”, Steve answers, allows himself a little smile. “The last time we met, he saved me.”

 

Sam watches them for an hour, maybe two; Steve can’t say if his suspicions have been confirmed or not.  
“They are looking for him, or at least what they think he is”, he tells Steve though, just before he takes his leave, puts a hand on his arm, squeezes. He means S.H.I.E.L.D, they both know it. “They want to talk to him, or at least that’s what they’re saying. I’ll keep you updated.”  
He doesn’t even try and tell Steve to take Bucky there, and Steve doesn’t know if he ever felt this grateful for the other man’s friendship before. “Take care, okay? Of you, and of lover boy over there.”

There is a wry smile on Sam’s face and Steve returns it, hopes Sam knows how much this means to him. “Will do. You too, though.”  
“I’ll do my best.”

 

Bucky is quiet after Sam has gone and at first Steve thinks he knows better than to pry, but in the end, too much has happened for him to watch Bucky sitting on the floor next to the sofa, metal and machinery whirring whenever he moves his arm.  
“Hey”, he greets, although they have been in the same room for hours, sits down next to Bucky, who flinches, but doesn’t move away.  
“He doesn’t trust me”, he mutters, without malice, just a simple observation. “Sam. He thinks I’m going to hurt you.”

He never would have expected Bucky to be this observant, so he doesn’t insult him by trying to downplay Sam’s worries, just nods.  
“Are you going to?”, he asks, tries to keep his voice as light, as unassuming as possible, tries not to think too much about why it takes Bucky so long to answer.  
“I don’t think I could.”

 

Time with Bucky passes so quickly that days seem to be gone within the blink of an eye, and yet it feels like it’s been a century since Steve has found the other stuck in that vice, looking feral and yet talking so softly.  
There’s no routine, but Steve doubts there could be one when Bucky spends some nights passed out on the floor and others pacing restlessly, too afraid to shut his eyes. They don’t talk as much as Steve would like to, but they talk, they don’t touch as much as his body wishes for, but they do, and every brush of fingers sets Steve’s soul aflame.

 

“Steve?”, Bucky’s voice wakes him up, almost familiar again by now, soft, but not with sleep, with something different. He sounds so much like he does in the very best of Steve’s memories that for those few, sweet seconds between dreams and wakefulness, Steve expects to wake up in their old apartment, almost eighty years ago.  
“Yeah?”, he rasps out once he has come back to himself, sits up and blinks twice, thrice, to downplay the disappointment of it still being the 21st century. “What is it, Buck?”

“I need you to tell me something”, Bucky answers, sounding unsure for the first time in their second lives.  
“Anything you want”, Steve replies without a second of hesitation; he might be revealing too much, but it’s too late or too early again for him to care. And he means it after all.  
“There is a memory I cannot place”, Bucky begins, every words spoken carefully, as if it was of vital importance. “We are in our apartment and it is winter. You’re shivering, and that although I already gave you my blanket, my coat… but you’re so thin, so fragile, and you just won’t stay warm. You don’t admit it, but it doesn’t matter, I know anyway.”  
There is a little pause, and it’s only now that Steve notices that his heart is racing. He knows this memory, has it branded forever to his mind, has replayed it in his best moments just as well as in his worst.

“I think it’s night, because you should be sleeping and I want to do everything to warm you up, so I-“ Bucky’s voice falters and he’s not looking at Steve, but that’s alright; he will again. “I push the blankets off, and you squeak, try to complain, but I pull you close, press our bodies together. And I didn’t think about it before, but suddenly I can feel you breathe, can feel it when you stop, when you shiver. I pull you closer still, because I think you’re still cold, and you make this small sound… like that little bird we found when we were boys, with the broken wing. And I look down and you’re not looking at me, but in that moment I just know and-“  
Again, Bucky’s voice breaks but Steve thinks that it might be because he doesn’t know if he should continue, not because he doesn’t know how to, this time.

“Yeah”, he mutters, puts his hand on the other’s thigh, ignores his heart jumping at the touch, no matter how small it is. “That happened . You were seventeen and I was eighteen and I was never too cold anymore that winter.”  
“ _Oh_ ”, Bucky breathes out and for the first time, there is something akin to a smile beginning to bloom on his face. It’s beautiful.

 

Their second first kiss is as soft as the first one, but not as tentative. There are blankets around them too, and without letting their kiss break, Steve lowers Bucky onto the floor and joins him there, wraps the sheets around their bodies, tries to warm Bucky up like the other did eighty years ago.

 

Sam wakes them up the next morning; Steve puts his sweatpants back on before he opens the door, but Bucky seems to have lost his sense of shame along with too many memories to count, stays where he is, scar-riddled chest and thighs on display in the cold morning light.  
Sam hardly spares him a glance before he starts talking.  
“We need to move”, he tells them while Steve is still trying to battle the blush on his cheeks. “They want Barnes, and they will have him if we don’t do anything against it.”

“But they don’t know where we are, do they?”, Steve asks, even while he pulls on a shirt, throws Bucky his pants with a warm smile and even more warmth spreading through his chest. “So we should have more than enough time.”  
“They do.” Sam sounds tired, but Steve doesn’t have time to think about that, just whips around to look at the other.  
“What? How?”  
“Natasha.”

The name seems to hurt Sam when he mutters it, and Steve understands, it hurts him just as much when he hears it. “Nat? Are you sure?”  
“Yes. And…she’s not the only one. We need to be careful, Steve, I don’t know who we can trust.”  
“Can we trust you?”, Bucky asks, still sitting on the floor, naked and it’s a flash of his old best friend, who did always think the whole world was against them. It makes Steve ache in the best of ways, and he can’t help it; he bends down and brushes a kiss against Bucky’s lips.  
“We can, Buck. Can’t we?”  
He looks up at Sam, trying to give him an out, should he want it, but the other just nods his head, not a trace of doubt in his eyes, his voice, when he answers. “I’ve got your back. Always.”

 

Sam gives them five minutes to gather the few belongings they have here before they leave, and Steve doesn’t even pretend to fetch something, Bucky just picks up the red hoodie after a few seconds of consideration, puts it on.  
“Are you sure you want this?”, he asks, looks up at Steve as if he needed to be absolutely sure of his answer, once it was given. “They’re your friends. Do you really want to go against them? S.H.I.E.L.D won’t be able to do anything to me that HYDRA didn’t at least try already.”

It hurts, even if Steve knows it’s the truth; what hurts more is that Bucky even has to ask this.  
“Of course”, he answers, and Bucky’s expression relaxes almost unnoticeably, the tension fading from the corners of his mouth, the lines around his eyes. “I won’t let them take you, no matter what happens.”  
“You might not be able to stop it.”  
“I can at least try.”

For some reason, the answer makes Bucky smile again, a sight as addictive as it can get, and Steve reaches out to intertwine their fingers.  
“That’s just how I remember you”, Bucky answers after another second, squeezes Steve’s hand, and although their five minutes must be almost over, Steve doesn’t step away, wouldn’t know how to. “My Stevie. Never knew how not to pick a fight.”

He’s beaming before he knows it, too much relief, too much happiness coursing through him not to be expressed somehow, and Bucky smiles back.  
“You wouldn't want to have me any other way", Steve responds, because it's what Bucky used to say while wiping the blood off his split lip, while wrapping his split knuckles with makeshift bandages.  
And Bucky says the most beautiful thing, the one he needed to hear.  
"I know."

**Author's Note:**

> In case you want to say hi, send me a prompt, or tell me something nice, you can find me on Tumblr here:  
> [X](http://www.coloursflyaway.tumblr.com)


End file.
